


Resolute

by ava_jamison



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-02-14 22:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison
Summary: Things get tricky when Superman and Batman get roped into solving an ancient alien disagreement. Superman's lost his powers, a prophecy says he's "The Chosen One," Bruce doesn't like where this is going one bit, and no one is wearing any pants.





	1. Confession

By some freak stroke of luck patrol ended early. Snow kept the criminals inside just like it kept everybody else inside, and it was most opportune, because Bruce had work to do. With any luck at all he could review the case files, get caught up on his Gotham underground project and even get five hours or so of sleep. Uninterrupted.

He was immersed in his perusal of the old subway plans when he heard footsteps on the stairs to the Batcave. He knew the sound of those footsteps, they were unmistakably Clark’s. But something was… off. The man was tentative, and Clark, no matter his other flaws, and he had them, Bruce knew he must—Clark was not tentative. Careful, maybe. Measured. Usually exhaustingly upbeat, and always unfailingly steadfast, but not tentative. He waited until the man made his way fully down. Clark was dressed from a day at the Planet, white shirt no longer starched and pressed, tie loosened.

“Clark. What brings you here tonight?”

Clark huffed out a laugh, or what he seemed to hope would pass for one. “That’s it? No Hello, Clark, I’m glad to see you?”

“Of course. I’m always glad to see you.” Bruce turned in his chair to face the man fully. “I would, in fact, have been gladder to see you about an hour ago, in the warehouse district. I’d have been able to knock things out quite a bit more quickly, and I’d be further ahead on my research.”

Something passed over Clark’s face, unreadable. Since when did Clark have such complicated emotions?

Bruce tracked him, watching. He could wait.

Clark tugged at his tie, exhaling. He didn’t even apologize for not being there for the fight.

Bruce couldn’t wait. “Is anything wrong, Clark?”

“Wrong? No. No, I’m fine. Can I… Look, do you have a minute?”

Bruce didn’t say, “For you? Always.” Instead, he nodded, gesturing to a chair next to his own.

Clark fell into it. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About the League’s plan. To neutralize the reactor on Orlon-5.”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“I don’t think it’s the best way.”

“What is?”

“Negotiation.”

That was unexpected. Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Negotiation has failed. I’ve been through the protocols and all scenarios. The best plan is the one we have now: You melt the Orlon's capacitator. In less than…” he glanced at the monitor “twelve hours.”

“We haven’t exhausted negotiations.”

“Wonder Woman and J’onn would disagree.”

Clark shook his head. “You’re not listening.”

“I am. Perhaps you’re not being forthcoming.”

“What I mean is that _we_ haven’t. You and I.”

“Batman doesn’t negotiate.”

“Maybe Batman doesn’t, but Bruce Wayne does. You’re the head of a corporation. You have shareholders. You’re a brilliant negotiator.”

“Clark, I’m the head of a corporation, and as far as anyone else knows, a head in name only, until the shareholders want a whipping boy. I’m thought to be vapid.

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s an image I carefully cultivate.”

“I’m an investigative reporter, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“As a reporter, you should know, and you do know, I’m sure—kowtowing to shareholders is not the same as negotiating a peace treaty. The only way to do it is to take away the Orlon-5’s bargaining chip, and that requires demonstrating that they cannot win by decimating their defenses—”

“Bamboozling them with fireworks.”

“It happens to be something you do very well.” Bruce’s words were clipped, but he really couldn’t be blamed for that. “Clark, they are a primitive species. Of course we’re bamboozling them.”

“Would you listen to yourself?”

“I’m trying to avoid more carnage. Without our show of might—”

“We come in swinging, you mean.”

“Yes. That’s hardly unusual, for the two of us”

“But what if we don’t? What if we give my idea a try, at least. We can always come in swinging if that doesn’t work out.”

Bruce frowned at him. “I’m not sure I want to set the precedent.”

“Of peaceful resolution?”

Clark was letting sarcasm slip into his voice. It was disconcerting. “I don’t want to set the precedent of Batman as negotiator. He frowned at Clark. “And Superman isn’t known for his ability to make deals.”

“Yeah, well maybe it’s time he was.”

Bruce squinted at him. “What are you getting at?”

“Maybe I need to try, is what I’m getting at. Maybe I need to do something that requires something besides coming in and hitting hard. Might doesn’t make right, Bruce.”

“Thank you for the after school slogan.” Bruce thought longingly of the subway plans. They were a puzzle, but they were a puzzle he could figure out. He sighed, cut to the chase. “What on earth are you talking about? And why are you so odd?”

“I’m not being odd.” Clark slumped back in the chair.

Bruce studied the man’s face, and slowly it dawned on him. He could’ve kicked himself. “You should’ve just told me, Clark. There’s something wrong with your heat vision.”

“There’s something wrong with my heat vision,” Clark said, shoulders slumping.

Bruce stood, moving toward him. “What kind of wrong?”

“I don’t know, Bruce.”

“Isn’t working at all wrong, or isn’t controllable and I may fricassee the Batcave wrong?”

Clark glared at him. “This isn’t a joke, Bruce. And don’t think I don’t see you gauging how close you are to the Kryptonite.”

“You don’t even know where I’ve got the Kryptonite.”

Clark put his head in his hands, and if he’d been distraught, that would have been too much for Bruce, but he was angry, and that was manageable. Welcome, even. “I’m not an idiot, Bruce. I know where you’ve moved the Kryptonite.”

“You can’t possibly. But right now I’m much more concerned about—”

“First of all, I do know where it is. I have x-ray vision. Or, I used to, anyway. You’ve got plenty of lead around here, but your whole cave isn’t lead. There are only a limited number of places. . .”

“Clark, focus. How bad is this?”


	2. Electric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark's in trouble. Will the Fortress hold the answers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes out the Batshitcrazy. Thanks for your feedback and enthusiasm! I love you :)

The fortress was cool and antiseptic and Bruce hated it. He had perfectly good diagnostics at the cave, and Clark knew that. It was only stubbornness that made him trust the fortress more than Bruce’s base of operations, but at least he seemed on a more even emotional keel now that they were in his own territory. His own strange and disconcerting alien territory. 

How do you stand it here, he wanted to say, but he didn’t, not the least because Clark hadn’t even wanted him to come. As far as Bruce could tell, he was only along because Clark needed a ride, although that was fine. Clark needed him, even if he didn’t know it. At least one of them needed to be able to remain emotionally detached, and if there was one thing Bruce could be, it was emotionally detached.

Clark hunched over an alien keyboard, one that seemed far too small for his robust frame, putting in calculations while the computer spit out its monotone responses. At least Clark could get a computer with an inflected voice, if he was going to have one that talked to him. An annoyance, it was.

For his benefit, he supposed, although he was perfectly capable of translating Kryptonian, thank you very much, the computer spoke in English.

“Duration of condition?” the thing asked.

“Varied,” Clark answered. “First onset three weeks ago.”

“Three weeks ago?” Bruce said. “Did you even think you should tell me? The League deserves to know if you can’t—”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Not me, Clark. The League deserved to know.”

“Have you contacted them yet?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s interesting.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. Dared Clark to make him say it. Clark would lose. “What’s interesting?”

“I thought they needed to know.”

“Alright, you’re right. _I_ needed to know.

“Well, now you know.”

“You had to tell me so that I’d bring you here.”

Clark did the closest thing he ever did to rolling his eyes. “You can tell “the League” that it started about three weeks ago. It’s been choppy. One minute I’d be fine and then… boom! No more powers. I thought it was just a fluke, you know? Maybe, for example, there was sunspot action.”

“I could verify sunspot action at the cave.”

“I can do it here, too. I already did, as a matter of fact. Cross-referenced it, anyway. While you were glaring at the fortress.”

“I wasn’t glaring.”

“I know you hate it here.” Clark held up a hand for quiet and spoke to the computer again. “Varied symptoms occurring with onset. Deterioration of superspeed, heat vision, x-ray vision, superstrength—” with each word his shoulders slumped a little more and with each word Bruce felt his stomach lurch. He wore his poker face, he knew he did, but apparently Clark saw something there anyway, and whatever it was, it made Clark square his shoulders and sit up straight. 

He pushed a button and the computer whirred. Whirred. Had Kryptonian technology even made it to the 21st century? It sounded like Clark needed to upgrade. Did the damn thing upgrade itself? Bruce realized he had no idea. He’d taught himself Kryptonian, but he’d never gotten into Clark’s computer. He should volunteer to overhaul it. Clark probably wouldn’t let him. Bruce realized he was holding himself very tightly, on edge while he waited for the computer to come up with something. Anything.

“More data required,” it finally spit out.

Bruce threw up his hands. “We haven’t even tried the Batcomputer. You were in too much of a hurry to get here, and a lot of good it’s doing us.

“That’s just because we don’t have the evidence yet.” Clark rose from his seat and on the other side of the room a door whooshed open. Disconcerting. Clark led the way, and they went down a short corridor and into what passed for Superman’s medbay. Not that he needed one. The man was invulnerable, for all rights and purposes. Sure, a meteor or nuclear warhead might rough him up a little, but it wasn’t anything Bruce couldn’t patch up for him. He was pretty sure Clark even had a lab around here-he said he did, but Bruce hadn’t ever seen it, and there wasn’t any way it could measure up to the cave anyway. He wished they were at the cave.

The med lab consisted mostly of a huge pod, standing on end. It resembled some kind of weird tanning booth, and when Clark climbed in and spoke to the computer, the thing sparked on, blue lights scanning over the man’s body. The air was filled with the scent of zapping ozone as volts of electricity sparkled and bounced across Superman’s broad chest, danced over his biceps, arced over his quads. He was limned in blue, a pale, shimmering haze that made the hair on his head almost blue-black.  


“Are you sure this is necessary?” Bruce said, because although the suit was invulnerable, perhaps, tonight, Clark was not, and he didn’t trust obsolete alien hardware to do what it was supposed to do if a Kryptonian suddenly lost what made him Kryptonian. Versus human. Bruce pushed the thought out of his head. Clark wasn’t human, even if he was losing—had lost—had temporarily lost—a small measure of his Kryptonian powers. He had to remember that. Clark was an alien, as alien as this entire, ridiculous place, and maybe that’s why he hated it so much: it shined light on the gulf between them, between normalcy, if there even was such a thing as normalcy in either of their lives.

The machine grew louder, the thrumming hum building to a rumble, arcs and splinters of light buzzing and flitting off of Superman’s chest, and then the thing sputtered to a halt, spewing a few blurts of electricity, before shorting out entirely. "System malfunction," the computer helpfully said aloud.

Clark opened the door and stepped out, bringing with him a cloud of ozone. Bruce could almost hear the man’s heart buzzing. “Are you alright, Clark?” he said, but Clark seemed fine, if a little annoyed. Perhaps a lot annoyed. He waved a hand at the air, clearing it, Bruce supposed, of charges sprinkled in the oxygen, maybe ones only he could see.

“To the batcave, then?” Bruce asked.

Taking a deep breath and obviously not pleased, Clark nodded. He glared at him, like it was somehow Bruce's fault that the Batcave was better—and truth be told, Bruce _was_ the reason the batcave was better, but he nodded.


	3. Emissary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman's lost his powers and Batman doesn't trust diplomacy, but somehow Wonder Woman and Wally get saddled with the two of them while they try to negotiate a peace treaty between two warring factions on an alien planet.

He and Bruce were on the way back from the Fortress when Diana hailed the Batwing. She was on Orlon-5, with Wally. “It is earlier than we had planned,” she said, like she expected pushback from Bruce for not meeting his exact pre-planned parameters, “but sometimes human inconsistencies dictate change. I may have found a method for resolving the planet’s dilemma. One that relies on arbitration, not force.” Clark smiled, because that, right there? That note of cat-eating-canary I-told-you-so? That was Diana, rubbing it in to Bruce.

Bruce, however, couldn’t leave well enough alone and soon Clark was standing with him, Wonder Woman, and Wally halfway up a giant, icy cavern, watching roughly fifty percent of Orlon 5’s population half-a mile below and Clark had to admit that Bruce was absolutely right about one thing: The planet’s people were primitive. It wasn’t their furs and cloaks closed with bone, or the scabbards and daggers, or even the occasional club or mace. It was the way that they gathered, young and old, to kneel around a giant bomb. 

It was a tragedy that made Clark’s heart break a little. The war the planet’s inhabitants had been waging on one another had gone on for thousands of years, and as it progressed, the battle had pushed the people farther and farther back in time. They’d lost their libraries and museums, their schools and their architecture and higher math, but somehow, against all odds, this portion of the planet still had a great big metaphorically ticking time bomb, and the citizens, hundreds of them, were currently gathered round it, kneeling. 

Clark felt a small electric jolt buzz his body, one that he’d learned to recognize in the last several days. It went along with a shift in his powers, and suddenly, his super vision was back: he could make out the presence of an inner core of believers, those closest to the bomb. Besides the throng around the bomb’s periphery, these men, were they…?” he tried to make them out, but as quickly as his powers had come, they’d deserted him with another tiny electric bzzt-throb. Bruce stood beside him, looking through binoculars, and Clark wanted to ask what he saw, or borrow the binoculars himself, but hesitated, and kicked himself for it. Vanity. It had to be vanity that kept him from asking, because he didn’t want to explain anything to Wally and Diana, and he didn’t want to even admit it out loud in front of Bruce right now. It wasn’t a weakness, not exactly, but darned if it didn’t feel emasculating, on some level, and he had to shake his head at himself, at his own hubris.

“High priests,” Bruce said, lowering his binoculars. “That inner circle closest to the bomb. Any one of them could set the thing off in a heartbeat. Reduce the planet to a pile of ash.”

Wally grinned. “Lucky we got the big guy here with us, right? Wish I had a cape like you two. Me and Diana gotta freeze,” he said, his breath frosty in the giant cavern. “So what’s next, anyway?”

“Diana’s got something up her sleeve,” Bruce said. “As it were.” He inclined his head toward the Amazon and Clark’s eyes were drawn to her strong, graceful arms, one of which was currently squiring the Orlon queen, a beautiful, statuesque, full-figured blond with waist-length braids and thigh-high boots. The women put their heads together, talking softly.

“Two of them sure got chummy,” Flash said. “It started last night.” He raised his eyebrows at Clark in some kind of “hubba hubba” movement. Until Wonder Woman looked up, frowning at him, and Wally suddenly carefully studied the cavern’s stalagtites. 

“She’s a good diplomat,” Bruce said.

“Why do you make that sound like a dirty word?” Wally said. He stomped his feet, trying to warm them, the sound echoing loudly through the cavern.

“Stop that,” Bruce snapped.

Wally huffed, pushing too-long bangs out of his eyes. “Surprised you two are even here.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “Got to tell you, I’m used to you playing enforcer, Batman. You too, Superman. Not peacemaker. Guess you’re ready to jump in if we need you. He blew on his hands, rubbing them together. “Wish I could run in here. Get some heat going.”

“Focus, Wally,” Batman growled.

“I’m focused! We,” he said as he nodded to Diana, coming closer with the queen, “got it covered.”

The queen left Diana’s side, speaking to one of her guards, before returning with a member of her coterie, an older woman with long gray braids piled on top of her head. “Diana,” the queen said, the syllables heavily accented as she introduced her. “Neva,” she said, nodding to the old woman. 

The old woman smiled. “I am the queen’s...” Her own words were slightly more fluid than the queen’s, but not by much. “Interpreter.” The woman addressed Diana but Bruce cut in.

“When does the other faction arrive?” 

The interpreter frowned at him, before turning her attention and her answer back to Diana. “We await them at any moment.”

“Then,” Diana said, giving Bruce a cautionary look, before turning back to the queen with a smile, “in that case, we should make good use of the time we have together.”

Clark and Diana had always been good at reading each other, and now he read her loud and clear. She was trying to get the queen amenable, to warm her up. And she didn’t find the woman unappealing. The attraction was evident. He mentally told Bruce to shut up and let Diana do her magic. 

“Queen,” Diana said, and to Clark, the single word somehow managed to be a proposition. 

The queen heard Diana’s intention too, and her eyes traveled up and down the Amazon, a slow smile crossing her face. 

The interpreter took a deep breath. “Our queen wishes…”

“Yes,” Diana said, lips curving up in a warm smile. “I need no interpretation.”

“To negotiate further in privacy.”

Wally raised an eyebrow. “Is it finally getting hot in here or is it just m—“ Bruce glared at him, and thankfully, he shut up.

The interpreter bent her head to the queen’s, listening as she spoke, then spoke for her. “The queen feels certain that we can reach some sort of agreement.” 

When the woman stopped talking, the queen smiled, finally tearing her eyes off of Diana to take in Bruce and Wally, before her gaze landed on Clark. He met her eyes and felt locked in her sights, like she was.... she was practically undressing him with sparkling eyes. It happened to him, sure, but this was the first time in a while Clark had been undressed by a statuesque alien queen who was suggestively fondling the knobbed handle of her scabbarded dagger. 

He felt his face begin to heat.

“Ahem,” Bruce said, clearing his throat and nodding toward a passageway to the left. “Don’t you have a treaty to negotiate, Princess?”

At this interruption the queen leaned toward her interpreter, who bent her head close. “You,” the interpreter said, “may go.” She waved a hand dismissively at Batman. “The queen wishes to retire while she awaits the arrival of our enemy. She wishes this man to accompany herself and the Amazon.”

“Superman?” Bruce’s eyes shot from Clark to Diana, then back again. “Tell the queen that’s not going to happen.”

“Batman,” Diana said. “A little social finesse..”

“We really can’t let our star player do that, alright, Princess?”

“I can do what’s necessary as an ambassador—” Clark began.

“Tell her the one on my other side’s a speedster,” Bruce said.

Diana’s forehead wrinkled. “In this connotation, that’s hardly an alluring feature, nor does it help address our end goal, Batm—”

Bruce’s gaze grew more pointed. “Mention the vibrating.”

“Batman!” Wally sounded scandalized. 

The interpreter leaned toward the queen, speaking softly. The queen’s eyes widened, then narrowed, this time undressing Wally. 

Wally’s cheeks reddened. He looked down at his boots.

“Superman is needed out here,” Bruce said tightly. “With all due respect, your majesty, enforcement is an essential element of peacekeeping. And our Superman, here, is the super enforcer.” 

“Ambassador,” Diana corrected.

“Ambassador of enforcing.”

The interpreter again translated. The queen looked from Wally to Clark and back to Wally again. Finally, she nodded her head and held out her arm to Wally. 

Wally gulped, but he looked like he’d just won the lottery. He moved to follow the queen, looking, to Clark, like a puppy, and as he did, Batman reached out to grab his shoulder.  


Bruce leaned close to Wally’s ear. “Do not annoy this woman. We don’t know how long we’ve got until the other side of the planet shows up and we want her to be in a good mood.”


	4. Prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank my brilliant beta, zolac_no_miko, who I can't thank enough and whose absolutely flawless work made this piece so much better than it would have been. Talking with her about my story has been invaluable. I so appreciate her hard work and thoughts. I'd like to also thank my friend sistermagpie, who made me laugh when she gave me feedback on my story and helped me figure out how to wrangle Bruce and Clark's end game. I love her take on Bruce.

The thing about Bruce was that he always had better things he could be doing. And Clark did, too—somewhere, somehow, someone always needed saving—but he hoped he didn't focus on those other things quite so obviously. For all that Bruce thought he hid all his emotions, he didn't, and he especially didn't hide impatience. Right now, the man stood on an outcropping half-a-mile above a nuclear weapon, tapping his foot. He cut an imposing figure there, silhouetted against the icy cavern's walls, his breath frosting in the cold, and though a planet hung in the balance, Clark could tell what Batman most wanted, and what Batman most wanted was to be back in Gotham's grime, punching a criminal in the face.

Beside Clark stood the queen's interpreter, gray hair piled on her head in intricate braids, and behind her, Diana and Wally were sweeping out of the cavern with the Orlon Queen. Things were under control. Three thousand years ago some space travelers had landed on Orlon and for a thousand years the Orlons and the aliens had lived in peace. They could live in peace again, uniting the northern half of the planet—the human’s half—with the southern hemisphere, the newcomers’ home. Diana could do it, she could broker a lasting peace, and she had it under control. He and Bruce could leave, would leave, and the faster they got back to earth, the faster he could figure out what was wrong with him.

Back at the Fortress, he'd told Bruce they'd go to the Batcave, but he'd rethought things. No reason to get poked and prodded at the cave. Bruce had no idea what he was doing. Instead, Clark knew what he must do. Go to the Fortress, repair the bioscanner and discover what was wrong with him. Start there, anyway. Something lurched in his chest, just like it did every time he thought about it: the loss of his powers, all the things he could not do, all the people he couldn't save. He hated being unable to help, being helpless. He turned to Batman, ready to tell the man that that they should leave, go back to Earth, and that's when it happened.

It began as the slightest of sounds: a gentle rustling thrum, a hushed vibration that seemed to emanate from the cavern’s very walls. Soft at first, it rapidly grew, and if he were not who he was, if Clark was not Batman's ally, perhaps he would not have been able to identify what it meant, this sound that began as a whisper, but he knew Bruce, and he knew the sound. Bats. A heartbeat later the sound turned to shrieks, rising, building to a deafening cacophony as bats filled the cavern, hundreds of leathery wings thrashing together at once. They circled and swooped, sweeping past Bruce, poised as he was on the ledge, billowing his cape as they fled, darting and diving toward the cavern's exits.

Something was coming, and it was something bad.

“We need to evacuate your people,” Clark yelled to the interpreter, shouting to be heard over the din. As he spoke, the very mountain rumbled beneath and around them, verifying what he had suspected, the only reasonable explanation for the bats sudden, instinctual evacuation: an earthquake. Diana must have known it too, because she came running, with the queen in tow and Wally beside her, just as the cavern began to shake and tremble, the ground beneath their feet shifting. Every second the tremor grew stronger, bits of rock flying and scattering. The mountain shuddered and stalactites quivered, shivering in their moorings, shattering at Clark’s feet or plummeting down to the floor of the cavern.

"I'm going down," Diana said. She shoved the queen at Batman. “Protect her, or we’ll have a second civil war on our hands.” Turning, she leapt from the ledge on which they stood, descending down the rocky wall toward the lowest level of the cavern. Wally took off next, reappearing seconds later on the floor of the cave, a red flash among the wreckage, dodging falling debris and pulling people out of the way.

“Stay with the queen,” Batman said, pushing her toward Superman, probably all too aware that Clark was as useless as he felt. He took out his batarang, trained it on a large stalactite a few feet away, and in seconds, disappeared down a zipline to join the rest of the League and the fleeing masses.

Clark couldn't catch crashing stalactites or protect the civilians below from falling rubble, but he could, at least, get the queen and her interpreter to safety. "Which way to the upper exit?" he said, and when the interpreter began running he grabbed the queen's hand and followed, half tripping, half running, both making their way through a lurching mountain toward the mouth of the upper cavern.

There, icy wind whipped in, traveling across a vast expanse of blindingly white snow. Too white. It was midnight and the night sky was lit as brightly as noon, because the sky was filled with falling stars, sparking and dancing across the heavens. In awe, the queen froze at the very mouth of the cave, watching the meteor shower in wonder. The comets sparkled and dazzled and it was mesmerizing, but what Clark saw and the queen did not, was the huge, heavy icicle trembling just over her head, ready to fall directly on her.

"Watch out!" Clark leapt toward the woman, landing on her as he covered her with his body, rolling them both out of the way, and just in time. The icicle dropped. He was hit, but the queen was spared as the icy dagger glanced off Clark's back and sent up powdery snow where it fell.

\--

When the mountain had stopped shaking and when the injured had been tended to, the four members of the Justice League met the queen in a cold and austere throne room, decorated only with ancient tapestries. In front of the seated queen, in a semi-circle around a fire pit, stood three of her high priests, ancient men with long beards and gnarled fingers. They threw foul-smelling powders on the fire and drew runes on the floor before unrolling a faded and crumbling scroll covered in alien markings.

The queen studied it, and she and the high priests conferred, their guttural voices low but agitated. Finally, the queen looked up, speaking to her interpreter.

“You may go,” the interpreter said, inclining her carefully-coifed head toward Diana. “Return to your home planet."

"We came for peace, your majesty," Wonder Woman began. "We are here to assist—"

“We want the one you call Superman.” 

"Now wait just a minute—" Batman sputtered.

“He is the chosen emissary of the prophecy.”

“What prophecy?” Clark said.

Wonder Woman crossed her arms across her breast plates. “And what kind of emissary?”

The queen stood, her long blonde braids twitching as she shook her head. She might not speak English, but she didn’t like dissension. Descending from her throne, she circled Clark, studying him with ice-blue eyes. She spoke, and the interpreter relayed the message. “It has to be him.”

“Has to be me who…?”

"As it is written in the ancient scrolls, so it must be." The woman motioned to the middle priest, and the man held up the scroll, like it made any sense to the court's four visitors. "On a day of portents, when the sky storms with stars and the mountains tremble, a stranger who saves the queen will put the prophecy in motion.”

Clark felt his irritation rise. If someone would just get to the point... “What’s the prophecy?”

“You will be the Orlon’s emissary. You will travel to our enemy, the Cyans. You will end the war.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Batman said again. “We’re not leaving Superman behind.”

“He will not be alone,” the interpreter said. "The stranger will retain a single companion.”

Superman looked at Bruce. Everybody in the room looked at Bruce. Bruce looked like he'd really, _really_ rather be in the Batcave.


	5. A New Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely and talented beta, Zolak_no_miko!

Wonder Woman, Superman, Batman and the Flash conferred in the shuttle. "I don’t like this," Wonder Woman said, even as she prepared to leave, and Bruce agreed with her. Too many variables. On the other hand, there were emergencies elsewhere that could benefit from the efforts of Wonder Woman and the Flash. Superman would be of little to no help with those, at least for now, and for whatever reason, Bruce seemed protective of him, of the secret that Clark had chosen to share only with him. There wasn't a reason for Wally and Diana to know, so he didn't tell them. Besides, it seemed like an easy enough mission—just go see some aliens, let Clark do the talking, he was good at that—and meanwhile Bruce would figure out what was wrong with Clark. They'd knock out this mission in twenty-four hours and be back at the cave. Until then, the mobile lab on the Batwing was almost as good, now that he'd done the refit. 

"Believe me, princess, I do not relish more time on this planet."

"We will continue your work towards peace," Superman said. 

"Previously, my attempts were to convince the queen that they should bargain at all. As least they will now let you meet with the aliens on their behalf—"

"They're hardly alien," Clark said, just slightly testy. "They've been here for three thousand years."

"The non-indigenous inhabitants, then. The Orlons are willing to let you meet with the Cyans, which is more than I could get them to agree to."

“Big Blue here wouldn’t be here ready to fix it now, if you hadn’t set it up.” Wally strapped himself into his seat. “And we’re on call, guys, if you need us. One button away.”

"I’m sure that Superman and I can handle the situation. What do you know about the alien—" Bruce corrected his language, for the benefit of the group's other alien, “—non-indigenous life forms?"

"Regrettably, very little. Before the thousand-year war, the Cyans designed a portal."

Bruce didn't like the sound of that, and apparently, neither did Superman. It was evident in his tone of voice when he asked, "What kind of portal?"

"A connector, between the warring factions. Until today, the Orlons have refused to send anyone from their side through the portal, and any Cyans who came through were killed upon arrival. Be careful, Superman." Diana turned to him. Smiled. "And Batman," she said, almost like an afterthought, or maybe she just thought he couldn't negotiate a simple peace treaty. "You should be careful, too.

"We'll do our best," Superman said.

"Indeed," Bruce said. After all, how hard could it be?


	6. The Sacrifice of Alien Beings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and Superman are the only people who can stop an alien planet's civil war. Clark's the "Chosen One," and Bruce and Clark have to diplomatically navigate alien culture and save the planet. What could possibly go wrong?

The Cyans were a small and pointy people. Their teeth were pointy, their chins were pointy, their little shoulders were pointy, their tiny hands and feet seemed slim and pointed and even the tops of their little bald heads were smaller than they should be, or would be, were they anything approaching human. Which they weren’t, and maybe that was why they couldn’t get enough of Superman. 

Currently, the Cyans were giving the two of them a tour of what passed for their palace, and in fact, it was lovely, hanging silks and minaret-type formations and other things that called to mind a book of Arabian Nights, but for the strange shape of its inhabitants. The Cyans led them, silk togas sweeping their marble floors, up and down hallways, through a large, pastel-colored throne room and through arched passageways, pausing often to blink up at Superman, waiting until he 'oohed' and 'ahhed' at the splendor. Truth be told, Bruce was glad to be spared the attention—he didn’t have time to nod and he certainly couldn’t compete with Superman’s blinding smile. Besides, Bruce had seen it before—hell, he was used to it. The natives went crazy for the guy, and really, who could blame them? When he turned on the charm, he could be, to some, more primitive peoples, overwhelming. Not that he was to Bruce, of course. Bruce knew the man, and was pretty sure that when he wasn't wearing the red and blue suit, he put his cheap tweed slacks on one leg at a time. 

The Cyans lived on the southern hemisphere of Orlon, and their weather was warm and temperate. The portal had deposited Bruce and Clark in a lush courtyard, just in front of a fountain, fed by a babbling brook. The air was scented with jasmine and the stones of the courtyard lit by dappled warm sunlight. Just in view was the royal palace, home of the emperor, and even it was like something out of a fairy tale. No wonder the Orlons hated them. Bruce might hate them too, if he had to live on the planet's northern half, in the Orlon humans' primitive and icy world. 

The Cyans spoke a language that was based on tone as much as specific words, so their vocalizations resembled birds. Clark, annoyingly, had a better handle on what the little men and women were saying. Must’ve been some last vestige of his super hearing, and it was probably why they were currently directing a series of sharp, plaintive little vocalizations directly to the man with the "S" on his chest, rather than trying to include Batman in the conversation. Just as well. He was only here because somebody had to look out for Clark and so Bruce was along for the discussion and standing by, entrusted with a letter from the Orlon Queen. 

The Cyans, like the Orlons, had apparently insisted on a pair of negotiators. It was curious, because for all their desire for a second body, they weren’t giving Batman the time of day. Or at least he thought they weren’t, until one of the little fellows—or maybe a little woman, he wasn’t sure—came close to him, made little tweeting noises, and scurried off through some curtains. Odd. 

Following Superman and his entourage, Bruce traveled through another hallway, a banquet room, and then around a corner and the little Cyan was back. At least he or she looked the same, but the important thing was that she—he decided it was a she, based on nothing except a gut instinct—was holding a stack of silk curtains. She lifted them up to Bruce, inclining her head forward in an unmistakable bow-plea movement. She wanted him to take the cloths. 

Superman was several paces ahead, but he looked back, caught sight of what was happening and shrugged. His face clearly said that he didn’t know what was going on any more than Bruce did. Bruce took a step forward, because after he took the offering, what on earth was he supposed to do with it? But the little Cyan moved too, blocking his way, arms outstretched with the silks. Shrugging, Bruce took the offered goods, carrying them somewhat awkwardly, like a delicate parcel, and followed their little group and his new friend down yet another hallway. 

At the next corner, the Cyans made a more sudden, somehow more final stop than their others, and turned to each other, beeping excitedly. The head Cyan, just slightly larger than the rest, parted the curtains over a low, arched doorway with one pointy arm, moving out of the way. The gesture was unmistakable. Superman and the Cyan in charge were to go in and the rest of them stay out. The two of them ducked through the doorway, and the rest of the Cyans blocked the way. The problem was, Bruce was the one holding the Orlon's missive. The missive was a scroll, marked with hatch marks that resembled cave writings, and it laid out the demands of the Orlons. He tried to show them that, unfurling the thing somewhat, but they did not move out of his path. He could, of course, hand the scroll over the doorsill to Superman, but some protective instinct told him not to leave the man, as powerless as he was, alone with these people. Innocuous as they seemed, there was a reason the Cyans had sent them in twos. "Can my partner be allowed to join us?" Superman said, looking at Bruce across the heads of the little Cyans who separated the two of them. 

The head Cyan looked at Bruce too, and then he twittered something at Superman, who looked puzzled, and then he twittered at the Cyan girl—woman—female. The one who had given him the silks, and who was standing beside Bruce. The woman twittered back and then she reached out, patting the fabric, petting it, really, and then she shook it out. The silk was sheer and blue, and billowed in the slight breeze from an open hallway window, scenting the air with patchouli. She made a motion that had to mean "duck down," so Bruce did it. What else was he going to do? She pulled at his cowl. "Stop that." He pushed her hand away and straightened up but not before she'd wrapped the fabric around his neck. 

He rolled his eyes. Fine. He'd been afraid that’s what she wanted. They wanted them to dress like the Cyans, in flimsy togas. He sighed, shaking out the fabric so that he could give one of the sheer silks to Superman. However, there were not two silks in the stack. There was only one. Bruce didn't like the way this was going, already. Narrowing his eyes at the female Cyan, he draped the silk over his shoulder. There. She glared at him, tugging at his cape. She was trying to pull it off. 

He shook his head. 

The Cyan went for his utility belt, small fingers trying to find a clasp. 

"No!" he said, like you'd say to a small child who was trying to put a fork in the electrical outlet. "No." 

Making frustrated noise, the Cyan stamped her tiny, pointed foot, and a few feet away Clark... Clark had the nerve to laugh. To be fair, he looked surprised about it and it was only one short swift bark of a laugh, but still. 

Bruce ignored the petulant Cyan and moved past her to join Superman and the head Cyan. Bureaucrat. Official... whatever he was. The doorway was low, and he had to duck to get in, but inside, the ceilings were high, and painted with clouds and stars. Filmy fabrics just like the one he was currently wearing decorated the walls and corners, and the floor was covered with a deep ruby-colored plush rug and large, overstuffed pillows. 

He looked around for the treaty the Cyans were supposed to already have drafted. There wasn’t one, and for no reason that he could name, beyond the fact that this room, the end goal of the tour, didn’t include the whole point of the trip, he felt uneasy. In the center of the room, the head Cyan bowed low, for once, towards both of them, Bruce included, thank you very much, and waved his tiny hand toward a set of cushions, sized large, medium and small. He wanted them to sit down. Superman, pompous as he’d become during the walk and general kowtowing, took the largest cushion. Figured. Bruce took the middle pillow and the little Cyan took the smallest seat, sitting, as Bruce was, like a meditating yogi. Superman, however was another matter: it took him longer and he assumed the position lacking all of his usual graceful movement. He wasn't nearly as flexible as a fighter should be—he never had been. It was all that muscle. And lack of proper training. Clark had probably never done anything like yoga, or even gymnastics, except what he ended up doing by accident as he smashed some intergalactic enemy into next week and saved the world. Again. 

The head Cyan clapped, twice, in quick succession, and another Cyan entered the room from the rear entrance. He looked like all the other Cyans, save for the fact that his face was a little rounder, his eyes a little larger, and his skin a little bluer. With whatever passed for a Cyan smile, the Cyan bared little pointed teeth at Superman, at him. He carried his own pillow, which he set on the floor, joining the three of them. He smiled, bowing from his seated position, Namaste style. 

"Greetings and welcome to our land," the newest and bluest Cyan said, in English that was technically correct, although the inflections were all wrong. It came out: gree-TINGS and welCOME to our LAND. "I see that you have been given the robes of the companion," he said to Bruce, accentuating "THAT" and the PAN in "companion" and several other syllables that shouldn't be accented. "Although you wear them incorrectly." 

Sighing, Bruce pulled his cowl down and off. No reason to hide his face from these people. 

Clapping his hands excitedly, the Cyan leader made bird-like vocalizations and the little Cyan female came scurrying in. She promptly began pulling at Bruce's cape again. 

"No," he said, vehemently. She wasn't deterred. She just went, again, for the belt. "Leave that alone!" He said, swatting her hands away. She was very determined. He glared at Superman, because why was Bruce the only one who was under attack, but Superman's face said he didn't know what the hell was going on either, so he looked to the interpreter for help. 

The interpreter trilled something, two tones that sounded like reeet-AH, and the woman let go. Giving Bruce what certainly looked like it passed for a Cyan dirty look, she glided out of the room. 

"We misunderstood," the interpreter said. "My name is Cabreel. If you are the companion, you—" he turned to Superman—" must be the man of the prophecy. 

"So it would seem," Superman said. 

"The bringer of peace." 

"Yes." 

"The ender of war." 

"I hope so." 

"The star-traveler." 

"Yep." 

"The sacrifice." 

"Now wait just a minute..." 

Bruce held up his hand. "There's not going to be any kind of sacri—" 

"We must tell the emperor that you are here," the Cyan said, cutting him off. "There will be feasting tonight." 

"You didn't explain about the sacrifice," Clark said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

The bluer Cyan tweeted at the head Cyan, who cocked his head and tweeted back.

"We chose the incorrect word," Cabreel said. "We mean, of course, emissary. Emissary who negotiates peace." 

Bruce squinted at them for a moment, looking from the head Cyan to the interpreter. "Superman," he said, probably louder and more slowly than he should have, "is here as emissary." 

"As we've established," Clark said. 

"Emissary," Bruce said firmly. "No one's sacrificing anything except some arbitration demands. Hopefully it won't be you, but we won't know until you review the Orlon Queen's demands, and until we see the list of demands you've drafted." 

"If you don't have such a draft, we'll help you come up with one," Superman added. 

"We have attempted negotiation with the humans. They have not been amenable." 

"That's why we're here." 

"They suddenly got amenable," Bruce said, giving up on seeing the Cyan's paperwork. Perfect. Square one. Meanwhile, Clark wasn't magically getting any better. He stole a look at the man, wishing they were already back at the cave, so he could get whatever the hell was going on figured out. What if whatever was wrong was worsening? What if, after the loss of super powers, Clark began to decline in other ways, as well? Time was ticking. He indicated the scroll in his hands. "Does your leader read Orlon?" 

The interpreter—Cabreel, Bruce reminded himself—laughed, a series of high chirps. "Does our leader read Orlon? We are not the ones who have lost all vestiges of civilization, companion." 

"My name is Batman." 

"Batman... certainly," Cabreel said, accenting the second syllable of his name and the middle syllable of the word 'certainly'. It was off-putting, because everything the man said had to be parsed before it fell into place. It wasn't challenging in the least—Bruce had taught himself Kryptonian, for God's sake—but it required an extra one-hundredth of a millisecond before full comprehension kicked in, a tiny hiccup of a time-lag, and Bruce hated that one one-hundredth of a millisecond of adjustment. Hopefully Superman was doing better than he was. He began to unroll the treaty. 

"There will be time enough for that," Cabreel said. "First we must observe protocol, as it is written. First we must show you our city." 

"We saw of your lovely city when we arrived," Superman said, tactfully. He cleared his throat. "It is indeed beautiful. We were hoping to get down to business now, and perhaps save the tour for—" 

"We're not here to sightsee. We're here to negotiate." 

"Impossible!" Cabreel said, before relaying the message to the head Cyan, who suddenly looked just as petulant as the Cyan who'd tried to take off his utility belt. Then he let out a string of tweets, so fast and sharp that Superman couldn't possibly follow them, though Bruce saw him try. He twittered faster and faster, then stopped abruptly, glaring, his arms crossed belligerently over his chest. 

Cabreel nodded at the man, then turned to Superman, his own voice neutral. "We insist," was all he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments validate my questionable life choices!


	7. Welcome to Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark looked at each other and sighed, almost with the same breath, though Bruce's sigh was a lot more forceful than his. Fine. They were going to have to play it the Cyan's way. Fine. He wondered if he looked as annoyed as he felt. As annoyed as Bruce was, because the man was shooting daggers at their host. Clark reached toward the bridge of his nose and found himself trying to push up glasses that weren't there. It had been a long day and it might be a long night. Fine. One of them had to stay calm. At least he'd get to eat. He hoped they had a vegetarian option. Though with those teeth...

The southern hemisphere of Orlon was a Shangri-La. It was definitely not where he wanted to be right now, but Clark had had worse missions, and if playing tourist was what was going to bring about this peace treaty, it was a small price to pay to end nuclear war. 

Cabreel led them, him and Batman, wearing some ridiculous filmy thing over his shoulder, all through what was the center of their capital. He admired beautiful parks, stately governmental offices, a massive library, beautiful temples, lavish public baths, and various other architectural wonders. 

Batman at first seemed interested but slowly got impatient again and Superman forced a smile on his face that stopped feeling genuine about halfway through the third royal park, but they got through it, and that was the important thing. He felt bad about being so self-centered, but he couldn't keep his mind off his current predicament. He'd forget, briefly, and then something, a too-bright dart of setting sunlight that reminded him it was most definitely not red—or something too far away to see clearly, and he'd remember again, and try to see if anything would happen, if he could somehow will things back to normal. He couldn't, of course, and he knew it but it didn't stop the thought from fleetingly crossing his mind every few minutes. What if his abilities never came back? It made his head hurt. And how long had it been since he'd eaten, anyway? The day seemed like it had started eons ago. The sun was dipping low in the horizon by now, casting a pink glow that reflected off the white marble of the coliseum and turned the bluish skin of the Cyans and Batman's toga a lovely puce. 

"Finally," Bruce said, not even slightly under his breath, when the palace was in sight. 

"Now, we prepare for the feasting." 

"But what about the Orlon demands?" 

"That will be read at the feast. As it is written!" 

"Look, I know you've got your procedures, but we really must insist that you at least take a look." Bruce extended the scroll to the little man. 

Cabreel snatched the scroll from him, putting it behind his back, angrily. "The emperor will read the scroll at the feast!" 

Bruce and Clark looked at each other and sighed, almost with the same breath, though Bruce's sigh was a lot more forceful than his. Fine. They were going to have to play it the Cyan's way. Fine. He wondered if he looked as annoyed as he felt. As annoyed as Bruce was, because the man was shooting daggers at their host. Clark reached toward the bridge of his nose and found himself trying to push up glasses that weren't there. It had been a long day and it might be a long night. Fine. One of them had to stay calm. At least he'd get to eat. He hoped they had a vegetarian option. Though with those teeth... 

Cabreel and the entourage led them on a twisting and turning route through the palace, and it took Clark a minute to get his bearings. Cabreel was taking them to another part of the palace, one they hadn't seen before. He stopped outside an arched doorway and pointed to the door with a flourish. "For you, Bat-MAN" he said to Bruce. "The companion." 

Frowning deeply, Bruce opened the door. Clark stood behind him and looked inside. It was a very small room, littered with pillows and not much else. 

"You will need to prepare for the feast," Cabreel said. 

"Prepare how, exactly?" Bruce said, obviously as suspicious as Clark felt. 

"By dressing in the ceremonial clothing." 

"I already am." 

"It is not respectful to come before the emperor dressed as you are." 

Bruce spoke very slowly, iciness coating every syllable. "I thought you wanted me to put on the toga." 

"The toga, as you call it, is meant to be worn appropriately, alone, not over human clothing. You dishonor us." 

"We'll wear the robes," Clark said, stepping forward. "Only, can we get more than just a single—you know, layer? We'd prefer a couple each, please." 

"You have your own preparation space, oh chosen one." 

"Emissary," Bruce said. 

"Emmisary." The Cyan bared his teeth again, smiling, and waved his hand at Clark. "Follow me to your own room. And your own ceremonial clothing."


	8. Dressed for Success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get tricky when Superman and Batman get roped into solving an ancient alien disagreement. A prophecy says Clark's "the chosen one," Bruce doesn't like where this is going one bit, and no one is even wearing pants.

The southern sky turned from pink to indigo as dusk fell and gave way to darkness, warm jasmine-scented air wafting through the Cyan palace's courtyard and many windows. Inside the palace, Bruce tried to make the best of things, despite a rising level of frustration. He was sitting awkwardly on some little ottoman of a pillow and focused on willing a tension headache away when the Cyan woman came back. This time, as she handed over the robes, he could swear she was smug. He didn't thank her.  

There were, at least, robes, as in plural, and since "the chosen one" was dressing elsewhere, he was relieved to know he didn't have to share the two sheer things. He wrapped each of them around himself, multiple layers of gauzy, transparent silks, and together, they achieved some level of opacity. Still, he wasn't going to take off the lower part of his suit. That would be ridiculous. What he did do is doff his cape, his cowl, and the top half of everything. It felt cooler in the overheated room, but it was strange to be almost bare-chested, or bare-shouldered in this foreign place. He forced his jaw to unclench and resolved to buck up and soldier on. If Clark could be as stalwart as he was, under the circumstances, then certainly Bruce could bare a shoulder for planetary peace. He could, even, tamp down his impatience with this folderol. Just a little longer, they'd be done: mission accomplished, back to earth. 

The Cyan woman presented him with a metal clasp, one he suspected she'd been holding onto since her attempt at stealth-stripping him in the hallway—it was warm from her hand when she dropped it into his—and he was just fastening said clasp at his collarbone when there was a knock at the door, one he recognized and welcomed, for its solid, almost comfortable sound. Clark.  

"Come in."  

Clark entered and Bruce was speechless. Whereas his own clasp fastened flowing robes, Clark's clasp barely closed a fur-lined vest, and beyond that vest, Clark was dressed in only shorts, shorts that, like the vest, did not manage to hide the enormous power of his body. He took another step into the room, the furs shifting as his broad chest and shoulders moved underneath it, and his legs seemed to fill thigh-high glistening boots until his powerful thighs strained the top of the lacings. 

Bruce's felt his own eyes widen. Then, he had to bite back a grin. He couldn't help it.  

"Do not laugh," Clark said, looking absolutely miserable while still obviously making a committed effort to keep his chin up. "I know."  

Bruce firmly pressed his lips together. "It’s not really so much more revealing than your usual attire," he said, trying to provide some kind of support. "I mean, your Superman attire, not your—" he waved his hand, almost saying "day job," but he wasn't sure that Clark thought of it that way, divided himself like that. Bruce tried again, floundering, and he knew it. "—just more skin.:"  He decided to keep his mouth shut.

Clark snorted. “What have we gotten ourselves into?"  

"Nothing we can't handle, as long as this whole thing winds up soon." Bruce rubbed his temples. "How are you feeling?"  

"Honestly?  I'm feeling pretty annoyed right now. And wait a minute, I see your leg." He glared pointedly at Bruce's calf, which was peeking out from under his flowing robes. 

Bruce stretched it out, turning it this way and that. "And?" 

"You still get to wear half your uniform. I don't think it's fair." 

Bruce snorted, patting the pillow ottoman beside him. "Pull up a tuffet. It's only for a little longer."  

“Says the man who isn’t wearing hot pants." Clark tried to sit down and stopped, groaning. "And the man who's not wearing boots that won't let him get down low enough to sit on one of those things. They don't... " he said, bouncing a little on his heels and flexing his quads to try to illustrate how tightly the boots held him—"they don't bend very well." His furred vest opened wider with the movement and he had to redo the clasp. 

"At least it's warm in here," Bruce observed. 

Clark rolled his eyes, which, on top of his uncharacteristic petulance, showed he really was getting fed up. He never did that. "It's too warm, even like this." 

"You always run a little hot." 

"Since when do I sweat, though?" 

Bruce kicked himself for not noticing more quickly. It must have been the clothing that distracted him. Clark's pecs, beneath the furred vest, had an unmistakable sheen, the man's golden skin glowing more than usual. He stood, feeling Clark's forehead with his inner wrist. "Are you feeling alright otherwise?" 

"Fine," Clark said, now really getting irritated. He pushed Bruce's hand away. "And I'm not one of the kids. Let's just get through this night." He took a good look at Bruce's toga, now that the man was standing, and shook his head. "I don't know why ritual dress is necessary for treaty negotiation." He swiped a hand over his face. "I hope they have chairs, not pillows. I don't want to eat reclining." Clark looked over at Bruce, raising an eyebrow. "You, you're dressed for it." 

“I did get the better end of the deal,” Bruce said, flicking a hand at the rustling gauzy silks. “And I say that as a man wearing a nightie.” He studied Clark’s face. “You avoided the crux of the question. How are you feeling? Besides too hot and angry?” 

“That about covers it.” 

“Are you noticing any weakness? Beyond the loss of the superpowers. Any change in regular vision? Basic strength?" 

Clark shook his head, shrugging, and beneath his furred vest, his pecs tensed and released. He certainly looked as strong as ever. "Let's just hope there aren't any more hoops." 

"I've already decided: if there are any more delays, we get back to the Batwing, radio for J'onn J'onzz, and let him take over." 

"You've decided?" Clark's tone clearly said two things: one, that he was in a foul temper already and two, that Superman wasn't really in the mood to take direct orders from Batman right now. "I'm generally involved in the decisions that are—you know. About me." 

"I'm not fond of the idea of you sacrificing yourself for some alien race's love of pomp and circumstance." 

"There's not going to be any sacrifice." 

"I'm not talking about the Cyan's uncomfortable word choice. I'm talking about you, putting yourself last. We need to find out what's going on with the loss of your powers." 

"It's not like I've forgotten that I've lost my powers, Bruce." 

"Then you have to agree with me. I've run through all the possible outcomes, and you can't—" 

"I do." 

"You do what?" 

"Agree with you." 

Bruce felt the pounding headache in his head lessen as his jaw unclenched. "So we'll get through the banquet—" 

"Then feign an excuse if they don't play ball." 

Bruce clapped him on the back, feeling the man's shoulders relax under his hand. Clark was every bit as wound up as he was. 

They turned in tandem toward the doorway, ears picking up the sound of a Cyan's telltale scurry, and that sound was followed by a quick series of fluttering knocks, before Cabreel opened the door and peered in. "You're both ready, I see. “ He extended his hand, holding a pair of sandals. “For you.” He presented them to Bruce. Bruce rolled his eyes. Fine. Taking a deep breath, toed off his boots, and while Cabreel and Clark politely turned their backs, he took off the bottom half of his suit. If Clark could put up with shorts, he could put up with the whole shebang, too. “Ready,” he said, when the shoes were on and he'd squared his shoulders. Into the belly of the beast. 

“Excellent.” Cabreel bowed. “Come with me."

They followed Cabreel down one twisting hallway and the next, through pastel hallways, past gauzy, billowing curtains and more arched doorways. At first, the palace was quiet, their own footsteps and Cabreel's echoing in the corridors, but as the walk continued, a noise could be heard, starting as a high but quiet drone that built into something louder, growing in volume as the scent of incense began to fill the air. By the time they stopped in front of the end goal, a large, arched, curtained doorway, the air was thick with fumes and the noise was verging on a cacophony, filled with tweeting, twittering sounds and horrible, out-of-tune plinking music that sounded like an unholy union of accordion and ukulele. "Gentlemen," Cabreel said, parting the curtains with a flourish like he was showing off a new car on a game show, "the banquet!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me as happy as Batman punching a criminal in the face while reflecting dreamily about the "S" on Clark's chest.


End file.
